Shallow
I'd like to take a moment to lament the loss of valuable prose, and the preservation of innanery. Despite what you may think and despite my history this time I'm not disparaging my society or my peers. This time I'm disparaging myself.
There is a great part of, a part I've only recently stopped fighting, that is indisputably an artist. It is, I think, the reason I will never truly be content, but it is also an inherent part of who I am, and something I would not be without.
There are states of mind I slip in to from time to time which lend some form of inspiration to this otherwise futile drive. The heights of zeal, the depths of depression, the singularity of peace and the multiplicity of peril. These are things I hunger for, the nuanced shades of the palette of emotion, and I am not without these experiences. With the freedom I have in exodus I push myself to these and others sampling the subconscious and subsisting on the surreal.
The problem though is that I push myself to these points, reach the point of actual artistry, and then rarely record any of it. I would prefer that this journal consisted only of entries composed at the highest levels of inspiration, but that is a leisure not afforded to me by the nature of my mortal existence.
Even these melancholic ramblings disappoint me. What's the point? Is this just me whining at nothing again? The answer eludes my immediate grasp and a lethargy that grips me prevents any further attempt to snatch this spark of meaning from the miasma of the sublime. I'm certain that if I could only muster the strength to endure this introspection I would divine something, even if it was nothing more then mere justification, but that introspection would be more of the same, and my weary mind has not the strength to walk any further on the cruel hamster wheel of such philosophies.
There is a great part of, a part I've only recently stopped fighting, that is indisputably an artist. It is, I think, the reason I will never truly be content, but it is also an inherent part of who I am, and something I would not be without.
There are states of mind I slip in to from time to time which lend some form of inspiration to this otherwise futile drive. The heights of zeal, the depths of depression, the singularity of peace and the multiplicity of peril. These are things I hunger for, the nuanced shades of the palette of emotion, and I am not without these experiences. With the freedom I have in exodus I push myself to these and others sampling the subconscious and subsisting on the surreal.
The problem though is that I push myself to these points, reach the point of actual artistry, and then rarely record any of it. I would prefer that this journal consisted only of entries composed at the highest levels of inspiration, but that is a leisure not afforded to me by the nature of my mortal existence.
Even these melancholic ramblings disappoint me. What's the point? Is this just me whining at nothing again? The answer eludes my immediate grasp and a lethargy that grips me prevents any further attempt to snatch this spark of meaning from the miasma of the sublime. I'm certain that if I could only muster the strength to endure this introspection I would divine something, even if it was nothing more then mere justification, but that introspection would be more of the same, and my weary mind has not the strength to walk any further on the cruel hamster wheel of such philosophies.
posted by Max at 5:44 AM
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